I sneak out from her room at dawn so no one sees me.
She’s lying on her side, her cheek pressed to the pillow. Her blue hair’s spread all over and there’s a couple of strands just lying there.
Creepily, I pick them up and wind them around my finger, kiss her forehead, before leaving.
I head back to the mansion through the woods.
In my room, I get out a notebook I bought for myself a few days ago. It was an impulse buy; I’m not proud of it.
In fact, sometimes it makes me downright angry that I have it in my possession. I keep it hidden, out of sight like I’m packing drugs.
I only fish it out when I’m feeling restless. When I’m… missing her.
I sit at the desk, a desk that I haven’t used in years but I’ve been using it kind of frequently.
They say it’s easier to type up words on a computer, recognizing the letters on the keypad rather than trying to make them yourself. Because dysgraphia messes with that.
But I’m not doing this because I’m interested in making my writing better.
I’m doing this because I can’t stop myself. Because she’s in my head. These days, she always is.
So, I pick up a pencil. The strand of her hair’s still wound around the finger of my right hand as I open a fresh page and write:
Cleopatra Marie Paige.